


Progress

by Spooks, thesuninside



Series: Neighborly [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen, Punisher canon typical violence, Read the other one first, Weechesters, alternative universe, daredevil more like wheredevil sorry next time, listen Frank's the Punisher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 08:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15335508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spooks/pseuds/Spooks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesuninside/pseuds/thesuninside
Summary: Frank and the boys try to make it work.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this part took so long, attack of real life work. This is a direct continuation of the first part of the series, so maybe read that first, or this may not make much sense. As a reminder though, this is AU-ish to the way Punisher ends, and quite obviously AU for Supernatural. We’ve not watched Supernatural since somewhere around season six, also.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, and see you next time!

**Chapter 1**

It’s a week and a half till Christmas.  Frank feels a little out of sorts when he realizes he should’ve realized earlier, got his ass in gear.  Maybe he was waiting, but maybe he’s got to pay more attention to that kind of thing, purposeful.  Time’s been quick lately.

 

He he’s on a patrol when he realizes.  There’s a pattern of overdosing junkies.  Some kind of bad batch or some shit making them go catatonic and freeze, literally, just standing there for hours until they turn into snow-covered lumps in alley mouths or whatever, not even covered up.  Not that Frank’s going to shoot a junkie, sad assholes unless they make their problem someone else’s, but the pushers of that shit are damned murderers at this point.  Anyway, he stops by a bodega on his way in from a walk around looking for moon-eyed junkies, since he didn’t see any or much of anything else, and picks up a two-foot little fake Christmas tree. 

 

He figures it’ll sit on the odd bookshelf in the corner of the living room, maybe.  Dean’s been bringing in the local papers, the ones that still print every couple of days, since Thanksgiving.  He’s been stacking them on the lower shelves, after combing through them.  Marking them up and looking to Frank like he expects Frank to argue with him.  Frank does not, keeps his questions about what Dean has or hasn’t decided to himself.  But Frank does keep an eye on how often Dean actually heads out when he’s not going to work or to pick up Sammy from the subway.  So far, not yet.

 

Sammy eyeballs the papers, from the kitchen table where he insists on doing his little smattering of homework and other extracurricular work, the things he’s apparently double-time on to prove he can hack that new school. 

 

Sammy asks other things though, in lieu of getting to look through John’s journal unless Dean’s got it open for him.  It’s always something like: _I went to the library, and I read about—I heard about—You know, Dean, now that I think on it, I remember this time—_

That last one comes up a lot, and Frank tries not to listen—then gives up, straight up listens, because it’s never quiet, and he thinks Sammy’s bringing it up in front of him on purpose, though for what reason, Frank’s not entirely sure.  It’s shit like little kids falling asleep and never waking up, women in white dresses in pictures Dean got yelled at for not covering up fast enough, missed holidays from John Winchester. 

 

A missed Christmas is one of them, in fact, and Dean confesses he almost told Sammy everything right then—but Sammy was tiny, eight, and he thought it would’ve been selfish as hell to let it go that early.  _You deserved longer as normal, bro._ Sammy scoffs, says they weren’t normal just ‘cause he didn’t know.

 

Thanksgiving was another, a frequent dodge, and them having a turkey breast and canned cranberries, some other things like box mac and cheese, all with Dean’s microwave stuffing he MacGuyvers out of half a loaf of bread and some other random crap from the cabinets.

 

The kids don’t know who MacGuyver is at first, and Frank has to have a moment, cause shit.  It don’t even rerun anymore.  Then Sammy pipes up that oh yeah, didn’t that start coming on last year or something?  And this is how Frank finds out about sacrilegious fucking reboots and nothing being goddamn sacred, and they both laugh at him. 

 

But with Thanksgiving, Dean’d said, they were lucky to get time, because harvest season brought up all sorts of spooky shit.  It becomes a topic for weeks, because of course Sammy wants to know all about that, starts pestering since it’s definitely a section of the journal Dean’s not letting his brother leaf through.

 

 _Nothing to worry about in urban areas, but there was this one time . . ._ Dean starts. 

 

Frank listens in one earbud to a police radio, and the other ear to some shit about fields of wheat and a big industrial farm’s equipment getting goddamned straight up cursed, breaking down in weird ways, chewing people up sometimes.  Boys insisted on cleaning up, so they’re at the sink, clinking through dishes.

 

 _Wait, was that when we were in Nebraska?_ Sammy’s drying.

_Yeah, good memory._

Sammy’d gone quiet for a good long minute, long enough for Frank to glance over and see the kid giving his brother the hairy eyeball.  _Jeez, Dean, you mean Dad took you out to look at sabotaged engines when you were younger than me?_

 

Dean’s got his hands deep in the soapy water and just shrugs.  _I could climb up and then fit better, and he’d been teaching me how to keep up the Impala. I could tell enough to know it looked wrong.  I mean, it was a harvester, not like, climbing under a harrow or whatever._

Sammy flicks the towel at him.  _You know I don’t know what those even are.  Don’t try to distract me._

_Harvester’s the thing that harvests, harrow’s the thing with all the scary spikes in circles._ Dean elbows him back.  _It’s cool, Sammy._ His grin his bright, and his eye roll looks real convincing.  _Not like they came to life just sitting there._

 

 _Maximum Overdrive, Dean._ Sammy says seriously.  Then he seems to make the decision to drop it, and grins back.  Dean rolls his eyes and laughs.

 

Frank doesn’t write down patterns from the police radio anymore, from his listening.  Keeps it all in his head.  Good thing, because he wouldn’t necessarily trust his notes at the moment, not when he overhears (listens) to shit like that.  Even a week later, unboxing the cheap little popup tree and trying to figure out how to get it to do the thing, he keeps imagining it.  John Winchester, the man at his door casing him out, yelling at his kids on the other side of the wall, watching as his kid climbed up farm equipment that might be cursed or just plain sabotaged, malfunctioning and deadly, to take a look at it. 

 

At how old even?  Twelve?  Younger than—Shit.  Christ.

 

Frank doesn’t even know how old the kids are.  Seems nosy to ask, but he said stay till Christmas, wait until then before Dean decides what they’re doing.  What he’s doing.  Hunting shit or supporting Sammy, or both.  But this is a Christmas tree.  Whether they stay longer, or take off—

 

It’s not his business, but—Fuck it.  Yes, it is, it is his business, who the fuck is he kidding?  Who sends a kid into a potential death trap?  Even if they think they know what they’re getting into, they’re just kids.  He is not doing that.  This needs to square. 

 

The tree pops up.  All right then, one thing done.  Next thing.  It’s an hour till school lets out, so he does something he’s avoided so far.  He fucking snoops.  Sammy may not know where Dean’s kept that journal of their dad’s, but Frank does.  Dean told him, showed him.  Just in case.  Didn’t say not to look, but it’s understood.  Frank has not looked, his interest less pressing than maintaining the fragile equilibrium they’ve got here.

 

His interest is very specific right now, and he will be very goddamned surprised if John has not at least written something about his sons’ birthdays down, references, dates. Hell, if nothing but the thing about what happened to the boys’ mother—

 

And yeah, John has.  Couple places.  There’s a picture or two even tucked in, a very young, young Dean swinging his legs while a toddler Sammy’s passed out beside him, backseat of that car of theirs.  Another with Dean holding a shotgun at twelve, grinning all over his face at some junk yard or something, good trigger discipline—John’s actually in the background there—someone else took it.  Baby picture of Sammy. 

 

Dates though.  They’re spread out, but it’s enough to pinpoint that Dean’s got a birthday coming up in January, and Sammy’s is in May—knew that, not the date, but cause the kids had sneaked him into skipping a grade between moves.

 

But no, goddamn, the thing that gets Frank is that Dean’s only going to be seventeen—Sammy’s going on thirteen.  Which isn’t a surprise, but it _is_ , cause it’s about the ages he expected, but after knowing them—he assumed a year or two older.  Going on eighteen for Dean.  Maybe he’d just hoped.

 

It also makes Frank realize that shit, the kid’s heading to this special school, and New York—seventeen is maybe not old enough to sign for things.  Maybe they haven’t thought about that, maybe they’d planned on forging their dad’s signature.  Who fucking knows.  Frank puts the journal up, feeling like a snoop before sliding it right back in the hidey hole—too high for Sammy to reach unless he takes a stretch—and thinks.

 

Googling.  Maybe he ought to email Karen, get her take.  She’d like that.  Maybe Micro could fake ‘em some papers, if need be, if they decide to take off.  But time’s quick again, and he’d just made it to his computer when he hears light footsteps and the key in the lock.

 

Sammy comes in, bundled up from the cold in a big coat Frank got for him from Yankee Thrift, hat on his head.  Dean still wears his dad's leather jacket, but he's got it layered with two hoodies and a flannel that Frank can see from the door. Sammy's out of school for the break as of today, backpack heavy to keep him occupied.  The cold's seeping in through all the cracks in the windows, despite the cheap towels and duct tape and plastic wrap Frank and Dean've tucked into all the crevices they can find.

 

"A _Christmas tree_ ," Sammy gasps, eyes catching on it within seconds, before he's even shed his coat and gloves.  He's twelve. Now that Frank _knows--_ Sometimes he acts it on purpose, but sometimes it just leaks out, his words and actions a little more kid-like.  Dean doesn't say anything, just blinks. 

 

"Don't got any decorations," Frank tells the boys. Finds himself saying, "When I was a kid, we did the popcorn and cranberry thing, you know?  Pretty easy."

 

Sammy looks at him like he hung the moon.  Really, it is so easy to get love from these boys, even if they don't show it in big ways.  Sammy takes off his backpack and drops it, starts to shrug out of his winter things to hang on hooks Dean installed by the door. Dean's slower, stripping out of his hat, gloves, layers. 

 

"Where’d you get the tree?" Dean asks.

 

"Picked it up at the bodega," Frank tells them both.  "Didn't get, uh, a star or anything. Kinda forgot it."

 

"Do you go to church on Christmas?"  Sammy asks him, a chirp as he finally emerges from the cocoon of his big winter coat.  He's all skinny boy limbs, a long way from his growth spurt, and after hanging up the coat he heads over to the tree to look at it.  It's such a small little thing, something Lisa might've put in her bedroom on her little white dresser, decorated with origami and friendship bracelets.   Maria'd always made a big deal of Christmas. Sometimes Frank was there for it, sometimes it was just over Skype, but always a big glowing tree, presents, evergreen and cinnamon filling the house. 

 

"Did when I was home," Frank answers.  "Maria took the kids."

 

"Maybe we could go," Sammy says.  "If you want.  It'd be special, right?"

 

Dean snorts.  "I'm gonna pop that popcorn, hey.  If you wanna make the garland or whatever."

 

Sammy does want to make the garland, though he tires of it quickly, eats more popcorn than he strings on.  Dean takes over for them both. He turns surprisingly particular about the ratio of popcorn to cranberries, and the drape of the garland around the tree.  Dean cooks dinner that night, too, and leaves Frank and Sammy to clean up after they've eaten.  Frank sees Dean sitting down at the couch with some of Sammy's school supplies and a notebook.

 

A little while later, Dean paperclips a star to the top of the tree. He's drawn it in three dimensions, added shading and some fancy scrollwork on it.  "Hey," Frank says, coming over to look at it. "That's really damn good."

 

Dean blushes.  Sammy bumps into Dean's side, still drying his hands from washing dishes.  "Dean's always drawing and stuff," Sammy says.  "Usually it's girls in their underwear."

 

Dean's blush turns fiery.  " _Dude_ ," he says, and sounds so affronted that Frank has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.  Frank thinks, _He's sixteen_.  Fuck.

 

The next day, while Dean's at work, Frank takes Sammy shopping, gives him some money to buy a present for his brother.  Frank's not sure what to buy the kid until he lays eyes on it; it's more expensive than he'd thought but hell, Frank can handle it.  Sammy settles on a leather notebook, something that looks like their dad's journal, and grins when he sees what Frank picked out for Dean.  Frank takes Sammy by the library while they're out and leaves him at the apartment with another pile of books.  He's plowing through some kind of young adult fantasy series.  Frank thinks Sammy's not a young adult, but the display had been right next to the kids' section, so it can't be that bad, right?

 

Frank waits for Karen at their café.  It's snowing just a little by the time she comes in, and she just sparkles.  Her hair's pulled into a long tail over one shoulder and she's got a black woven hat on. The hat's caught snowflakes and it reminds Frank about the cold night sky in the desert, which is how he knows he's already falling in deep, and how he needs to be real careful here.  Still, he can't help smiling when she slides into the booth across from him. 

 

"Coffee," she says with relish when the server appears.  He's a young guy with the tips of his long hair dyed purple. 

 

"Sure thing," the kid says, pouring Karen a big mug full, and topping off Frank's with a wink. Karen grins at Frank when the kid heads off.  Frank shrugs.

 

"How're the kids?"  Karen asks him.

 

"Doin' good," Frank says.  "It's Christmas break, you know, pretty much forgot about it until yesterday."

 

"Christmas," Karen says.  "Wasn’t that--"

 

"Yeah," Frank doesn't make her finish.  That's the deadline.  Frank needs to amend it to _stay as long as you want_ or Dean's going to read it like a hard eviction.  They chew the fat a little longer, and Karen orders a sandwich which she eats without any shyness, unlike a couple of girls Frank dated in the past who thought they had to eat like birds to impress him.  Frank steals a few fries from her plate, drags them through ketchup, and she laughs, flicks salt in his direction.  The last couple of times they've met, it's been just this: talking, catching up, Frank starting to feel like something inside him was still alive and beating.  It makes him more determined to protect his world, feeling that again. 

 

This time, before they go, Frank tells her, "I need to talk to Murdock. About legal things, for the boys."  Karen blinks her surprise. She doesn't just take his word for it, either.

 

"He's asked about you a few times," she tells him.  "I tell him to mind his own business and he just gives me this look.  I know he's blind, but you will never convince me he doesn't know he's got the kicked puppy look."

 

"This'll help, I dunno, satisfy his curiosity, maybe," Frank says, after a second of dealing with an unpleasant feeling at the thought of Karen being tempted by a kicked puppy look.  Frank has been told (by Billy, that mother fucker) that when he's sad he looks nothing like a puppy or dog of any kind.  Dogs and puppies look like they need comfort when they're hurt.  Frank, according to Billy, looks like a coiled snake. 

 

Karen zeroes in. Her aim's as good as his.  "It's about the boys, isn't it?"

 

"Yeah," Frank admits.  "Dean's sixteen."  Karen gets this look on her face, and Frank realizes-- "You know."

 

"Yeah."  She leans in close.  "I did some digging. Dean and Sam, and they aren't from around here.  I got the dad's name too--he was on the FBI's most wanted list."  She hisses it, eyes looking for eavesdroppers, finding none.  Even if the kid that's been flirting with Frank all night has realized Frank's not gonna take him up on his offer, given up on watching them in favor of watching something on his phone.  "Jesus Christ, Frank, no wonder you wanted to keep them out of the system."

 

"Still do," Frank tells her, leaning in and voice just as low.  "But if--if Dean can't sign stuff for Sammy, school things, then Sammy's future's already fucked.  That kid's so smart, he really is."

 

"Midtown Science," Karen says, and Frank wonders how she found _that_ out.  He gives her a look that asks as much, and she doesn't look embarrassed.  She just shrugs.  "It's a good school.  Great college acceptance rate.  It's a real opportunity."

 

"So I need some advice," Frank presses on.  "Of the legal variety."

 

"You also need for Matt to not be in your business.  Because Matt--love him--has his agendas.  So."  She gets out her phone, sends a text.  "Let's leave Matt out of it."

 

"You know another--no, Karen, man.  He hated my guts and he's all up Murdock's ass anyway--"

 

"You know, I think he'd be happier if that had been the case, but they weren't actually," Karen tells him, tone light and amused.  "Besides, he had issues with--"  Her eyes flick around the diner.  She smiles at him, and dammit, Frank already knows he's gonna go along with it.  "Well.  Foggy never met Pete Casteleone, did he?"

 

Frank takes a second, then sits back.  “So you actually think he’ll say yes.”  Hell, beggars and choosers, all that shit.  And it wasn’t Nelson’s fault Frank tanked his own case. 

 

“I think Foggy wants to do the right thing, so it won’t have as much to do with you, or me asking, but instead it’ll be for the right reason—Those boys.” Karen pauses, and then shakes her head, laughing a little.  “That was corny.  I can hear my editor telling me to get ahold of myself, Page.”

 

Frank huffs a laugh too and glances out the window, just a glance so he doesn’t get caught looking at her grin.  Then he nods at her phone, the way she just texted.  “Did you already send out a line?”

 

“You know it.  We’ve been keeping up more lately, but a thing happened with—well, Matt, and we started keeping up again to kind of deal with it, and then just kept up.” Karen waves her fingertips.  “Long story.  Weird story.”

 

“Involve Murdock being what was it, ‘gone somewhere for a while’?” Frank asks, cause that’s halfway between a wave-off and a little too much information to be nothing.

 

“Yeah.  Gone.” Karen drains her coffee cup.  “We thought he was dead, that’s the thing.  After something complicated and weird.  Anyway, things were already rocky.  Then he’s back.  And a few months later, he’s following me to diners.”

 

Frank wonders if _weird_ is a way of saying _shit you might go shoot,_ if it’s _shit that’s already taken care of but too much,_ or if it’s actually _weird._   “How’d that work out for their little firm?” That’s what Frank picks to ask instead.

 

“Oh—” Karen blinks, and waits while they get their coffee topped up to go on, the waiter apparently re-evaluating whether they were ready to leave or not.  “The firm—they broke up.  Your case—Right on the tail end of it, during the end, I guess.”

 

“They broke up,” Frank repeats back.

 

“I wouldn’t bring it up,” Karen shrugs.

 

“No shit,” Frank agrees, and wonders how the hell he didn’t know that.  Then again, Murdock was the one who wanted Frank’s case, and then things—Yeah, _devolved_ would be one way to put it, once that guard told him what he did, once Frank knew he needed to get into Riker’s.

 

Frank keeps an eye on Wilson Fisk’s anticipated release date.  Fisk, who Nelson and Murdock put away.  Might be some good timing in this arrangement, if Nelson actually ends up doing something for the boys.  Because ten seconds and one long whiff of Fisk’s personality, and Frank knows that man savors revenge like a steak.  Every goddamned bite, until there’s nothing left.

 

Karen’s phone vibrates—”Ha!  I didn’t tell him what I wanted, just that I had a potential legal request, park related.  Which is code for shady, because we’re subtle.”

 

“Can’t throw stones, there’s worse codes,” Frank says.  “When?”

 

“An hourish.  Which—probably better to meet in public.  He’s suggesting actually—Central Park.” And Karen glances up at him, through her eyelashes, quick and light.  “Could say somewhere else.  If we’re thinking—”

 

“It’s fine.” Frank says, and then takes a sip of coffee he holds in his mouth.  It’s a little too hot, but that’s fine, too.  “Tell him by the ice rink, one by the zoo.  Cause if we’re talking about the kids, might as well bring ‘em.”

 

That’s not far from the carousel, but far enough away that it should be okay.  And now—he’s pretty sure he’s going to remember the feeling of Billy’s face crumpling, giving with each shove against the mirror glass.  Not—Frank takes another sip of coffee.

 

“All right, sure,” Karen agrees.  She’s already typing it in, taking him at his word.  “Heartstring tugging.  I like it.  You want to text the boys?”

 

“Naw, let’s go get ‘em.  School’s been out,” Frank tells her, and he signals for the check.  “Should be at the apartment.”  If they were doing this, and they were, he trusted her with that, too.  Might as well make it official.

 

They talk about nothing important on the way back to the apartment, taking the subway and then walking.  The subway’s crowded, Christmas traffic, and Karen stands next to Frank, close enough to smell her body wash or shampoo, something fruity but not floral, like berries or apples.  Frank was never too good at naming smells.  Or is it scents, when it’s on a lady?

 

The person who works right outside Karen’s office, she tells him, is one of those people who chews all day long, loudly.  And yes, she has an office, but it’s right next to the conference room that Sports uses to plan, and has Frank ever heard a half dozen sports fans disagreeing?  Frank responds by telling her about the tent TV schedule, back in Afghanistan, and how Frank one time pulled rank because the World Series, that’s why, they weren’t gonna watch some _hockey_ tryouts.  Karen laughs, and Frank smiles, and feels Maria’s eyes on him.

 

Frank unlocks the door, knocks so Dean’ll come and remove the chain.  “I’ve got company,” he tells Dean when Dean comes to do so. 

 

“Yeah—oh _hey_ ,” Dean says, and grins at Karen like he’s twenty-three and not _sixteen_. 

 

Frank rolls his eyes and sorta shoves him, careful like, out of the doorway.  “Let the lady in.  Hey, where’s your brother?”

 

“Nerding out.  You took him to the library, huh?”  Dean’s expression is a little wry, but also a little soft.  “He’s been talking about it, you know, every time he comes up for air from whatever book he’s reading.”

 

Karen looks at the library-bound hardcovers on the table and makes an approving noise. “ _The Hunger Games_ , huh?”

 

“Is it good?”  Frank asks.

 

“Yeah, I liked them.  A little violent, but then.”  She shrugs.

 

“Sammy’s smart,” Dean says, like automatically.  “He was reading, um, some French book.  Ley Miz, or something.”

 

“ _Les Miserables?”_ Karen asks, eyebrow raised.  “Yow.  I couldn’t make it through that in high school.  Did you have to read it, Frank?”

 

“Read the Cliff’s Notes,” Frank tells them.  “I like poetry more than big ass novels like that.”

 

“No _shit?_ ” Dean asks, startled and showing it.  “I thought poetry was for girls.”

 

“Is there a problem with that?” Karen asks immediately, _both_ eyebrows elevating.

 

Dean’s face turns startled in a different way and he holds up both hands, his smile going sheepish and his blush coming in.  “Uh.  Sorry?  I mean—no?”

 

Karen rolls her eyes, and smiles, taking mercy on him probably because he’s sixteen and not fully baked yet.  “Maybe think about that next time, then.  Hey—you’ve got a Christmas tree.”  Karen makes her way over to look at it, reaches up to touch the star.  “This is really pretty,” she says.

 

Dean’s blush turns vibrant, and Frank puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes.  Dean looks up at him and grins.  “Dean drew it,” Frank tells her.  “He’s got an eye.”

 

“It’s nothin’,” Dean says, in the same tone he always uses when anybody pays him a compliment.  No matter what it is— _Thanks for cooking dinner. The meatballs are real good.  That was a tricky shot, good job. –_ it always got the same shrug, the same dismissive grin.  Dean can’t accept, Frank thinks, that his best is pretty damn good.

 

“Hey,” Sammy says from the door.  He’s holding _Mockingjay_ in one hand, finger holding his place.  He looks between Karen and Frank and Dean with questions in his eyes that he’s maybe too polite to ask, maybe he knows he’ll get his answers if he just lets somebody start talking.

 

“Hi, Sammy,” Karen says.  “I’m Frank’s friend—you researched me, remember?”

 

“Yeah, I remember,” Sammy says.  Then, he grins.  “Where’s Daredevil?”

 

Karen’s expression turns wry.  “Definitely not here.”

 

“I need to talk to you boys,” Frank says.  “Come on, Sammy, siddown.”

 

Sammy flops over on the couch, taking up too much space until Dean shoves over beside him, making Sammy giggle.  Dean grins, then looks back at Karen.  Sammy pipes up, “We got a _Christmas tree_.  Dad never got us a Christmas tree.”  He swings an almost _defiant_ look back at Dean like _dare you._   But Dean just looks sad, hangs his head.

 

“Dad did his best,” Dean says, and Frank looks at Karen.  Karen’s got her big eyes even bigger, and she sighs. Nods, like deciding something.

 

“I’m just going to go freshen up,” Karen says.  “If that’s alright.”

 

“Sure,” Frank tells her, points towards the bathroom.  While she clicks away, Frank sits down, looking at the boys.  “We needta talk about some things.”

 

“Are you kicking us out?”  That is Sammy’s first question.

 

“No,” Frank says, immediate, seeing the tension along Dean’s shoulders.  “But we gotta talk about what you’re planning.  I know how old you kids are—yeah, Dean, _kids_ , you’re not even seventeen.”

 

“I’ve been taking care of Sammy since I was four!” Dean tells him, like that’s not fucked up, like John Winchester didn’t _at least_ deserve a real beating for that. 

 

“Ain’t saying you don’t take care of Sammy,” Frank tells him. Frank keeps his voice even, keeps his thoughts pinned on the present.  “Or that you don’t do a damn good job of it. Hell, you started taking care of me, soon as you moved in.  You’re the cook around here, in case you hadn’t noticed.  Keep my shit straight.”  He taps his own temple.  Dean flushes, subsides, and Frank continues. “But if you’re staying in New York, and Sammy’s going to go to that school, we need to talk about how to make that happen.  You wanna stay here?”  Frank intends to say more but—he figures it’s better to just put it out there.

 

“Yes,” Sammy immediately blurts.

 

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean hisses.

 

“ _What_ , Dean?  I do.  I want to stay with Frank.  I want to stay in _one place_ until I _graduate high school!_ ”  Sammy jumps to his feet, face going red. He’s still got the book in one hand, though, and he waves it around.  “He took me to the _library_ , Dean!  He’s _here_!  I want to stay, I want us _both to stay_ , because we—we can be _here_ and—and we’re _good_ here!  We’re just Sammy and Dean and Frank—”

 

“I’m the Punisher,” Frank tells the kid, breaking through.  “And your brother hunts monsters, just like your dad, though if he wants to keep doing that, that’s his choice— _your choice_ , Dean, you hear me?”  Frank looks at him, meaning it.  “I’m telling you both.  _You choose_.”

 

“What’s it going to mean?”  Dean asks.  “If we stay?  We don’t—we don’t _need a dad_.”

 

Sammy looks like he’s about to argue, but Frank—Frank can’t hear that.  He pictures Frankie’s body, Lisa’s.  “I’m not trying to be a dad,” Frank says.  His voice is rough and hurt to his own ears.  “But I.  Like you both. Alright?  I like having you here.  If.” He looks down at the floor, finds terrifying truths tumbling from his lips.  “I’ve spent a real long time just causing pain.  Maybe if I can help you.”

 

Frank is so surprised when Sammy’s arms wrap around his shoulders that he almost reacts by pushing him away. Instead, he brings a hand up to the kid’s narrow little back, pulls him close, pictures bullets ripping through the delicate frame of his ribs and turning his beating little heart into sausage.  _A brain thing_ , Dean had said at one point, describing the damage to Frank’s mind about as clearly as Frank himself understands it.  A brain thing. Yeah.  Frank has a brain thing, Frank is _fucked up_ if he can’t even get a hug from a kid without picturing carnage. 

 

Who the hell is he fooling?

 

Does it matter, if he can keep the fooling going long enough?  Long enough to get Sammy through high school?

 

“You’re helping us,” Sammy says.  “And we’re helping you.  And that’s that.”  Frank doesn’t need to look up to see Sammy challenge Dean. 

 

It’s no surprise, either, when Dean says, voice rough, “We’ll stay.” 

 

Frank jerks his head in a nod.  Sammy whoops, just a little, and squeezes, then goes to his brother and hugs him, too. Dean acts like he’s obligated to push Sammy away, to make _ew_ noises, but Sammy holds on to spite him.  “Then the next thing to do,” Frank tells them, “is to find some kind of legal solution here, for how to get Sammy enrolled, all that.  That’s why Karen’s here. She’s got a lawyer friend, somebody she trusts, and we’re gonna go meet him.  See what he can do for us, or recommend.”

 

“Murdock?”  Dean asks.

 

“No way,” Sammy says, shrewd look on his face.  “I bet it’s the other one, the other one that defended you.”

 

“Franklin Nelson, Foggy,” Frank says, with a nod.  “Kind of a goofball but he did his best.  Not his fault I threw my trial.”  
  
“Why’d you do that?”  Sammy asks him.

 

“That’s a long story,” Frank tells him. “For another time.  Anyway—you two ever been ice skating?”

 

“No!”  Sammy says.  “Are we gonna?”

 

“Yeah, there’s an outdoor rink, that’s where we’re meeting.  In Central Park.  So, dress warm.”

 

Sammy whoops again and takes off, to go change. That leaves Frank and Dean alone in the room, and Frank looks at the older boy, waiting for him to judge.  “You’re really okay with it. With us staying?”

 

“I really am.”

 

“You aren’t gonna make me not hunt?”

 

“I can’t make you do anything,” Frank answers. 

 

“Do you want me to stop hunting?”  Dean asks it like a challenge.

 

Frank, unaccustomed to backing down from such things, leans back in the chair.  Considers the best way to meet it.  Finally, he says, “I want you to know you got more options than that,” he finally says.  “And I want you to go into it because you really _choose to_ , not because you think it’s the only road in front of you.  ‘Cause it ain’t.”

 

Dean’s look is doubtful, almost closed off, and Frank knows that if Dean ever sees himself as anything besides what John Winchester made him, it’ll be a lot of luck. 

 

Frank sighs, gets up.  “Come on.  You need a better pair of gloves if we’re going ice skating.  Was gonna save ‘em for Christmas, but.”  Frank heads into the other bedroom, the one with all his gear stashed away, and opens a drawer.  He’s got the kids’ other presents stashed in there, and he closes it quickly, before Dean can see anything else.  Then he tosses Dean, who looks started, a pair of gloves like what Frank favors himself for high-altitude and cold weather work, military grade and lined and water proof.  A lot better than the old gloves Dean’s been wearing, which look like they were purchased to insulate against the gentle winters south of the Mason Dixon line.  Dean looks them over, looks up at Frank.

 

“Thanks, man,” he says, quiet in a way that reminds Frank of eating bologna sandwiches and mac and cheese together, right after they met.   This kid, alone except for his brother and—well.  Frank decides, right then, that Frank is not gonna join the long line of people who’ve let Dean down.  He comes over and grabs Dean by the back of the neck, pulls him in to hug him, just quick, the way he’d do to any of his boys back in Afghanistan. 

 

“You’re welcome,” he says.  “Suit up, kid, I got bets with Karen on how many times you two fall on your asses.”

 

“Hey,” Dean says, suddenly, blushing, and lowering his voice. His eyes flicker to the closed bathroom door. Karen’s had more than enough time to freshen up, which means she’s giving them privacy, probably checking her e-mail on her phone or something.  “You like her?”

 

Frank’s quiet a minute.  He says, “Ask me another time, okay?”

 

“Sure,” Dean says, easy, but he looks like he wishes he could take the question back.

 

Frank shakes his head and kind of shoves Dean towards the rest of the apartment.  “Suit up,” he says again.  “Make sure your brother’s dressed warm enough.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, and there’s a pause after it’s out of his mouth, but then he rolls with it, heading off.

 

Frank wonders about the reaction.  He steps across the hall, knocks on the door.  “You can come out now,” he says.

 

Karen opens the door, leans in it, looking at him. They’re near the same height, Frank and Karen.  Frank notices that every time they stand together; she seems to grow in his mind, when they’re apart, not so much getting larger in his thoughts as becoming _more_ , so that he’s always a little surprised that so _much_ fits in such a compact frame. 

 

“Do you like her?”  Karen asks him.

 

Frank _feels_ his face twist.  His voice, when it comes, is a rough whisper.  “I ain’t ready to answer a question like that yet,” he says.  “Don’t ask.”

 

She got his meaning. She doesn’t look hurt, just nods.  “Probably for the best,” she says, her own voice low.  “I’m not sure I’m ready to hear the answer.”

 

“Sorry, Karen,” he tells her, and means it.

 

“We are who we are, Frank,” is her answer, and tautology or not, it’s as good a reason as any.  “It’s nearly five. Foggy’ll be at the park by six.  We should get going, if we the boys to have a chance to skate.”

 

“Think it stays open pretty late, this time of year,” Frank says, after a pause, remembering.  It wasn’t a thing his family did often, since Frank’s leave usually ended up being in warmer weather, but before, the gaping Before-Maria where Frank remembers that he wasn’t much more than trouble and wasting time.  But hell, he remembered the big rink being open.  Karen’s not from the city though.

 

“Oh yeah?  You know how?” She asks. 

 

The sound of Dean making hurry-up-but-wait-this-too- _hold-on_ noises at Sammy, rearranging something or other in the other room, _no like—hey!_ —squabbling—floats out.

 

“Yeah, but it’s been—a long time. Half a decade or so.  You?”

 

“That sounds about right,” Karen says. 

 

Then here comes Sammy, striding out of the other room, looking put upon and red-faced in his layers.  Karen goes on to ask him, “Have you been before?  Skating?”

 

Dean’s following, layered up too, but grinning at Sammy’s back now.  Sammy tries and mostly succeeds in wiping the huff off his face, ‘Just regular skating. A couple times.  It was a thing in one town we were in for a while.”

 

“Yeah, not ice though,” Dean says.

 

“That’s what I—“ Sammy screws his mouth shut, then opens it again, “Dean never got on the floor.”

 

“Nope!  Let’s go, huh?” Dean says, grinning big like he knows he just won something. 

 

Instead of letting a squabble escalate, Frank agrees, gets them going while Karen covers her grin behind her hand.  Subway again, and Frank glances at the reflection in the glass when there’s no one in the way.  Karen’s scent is now mixed up the smell of laundry from the boys, cause the train car is packed, and neither one would sit when she was standing.  Then an older man gets on, and they’re all standing. 

 

Frank sees a woman get one with a shoulder holster under her suit jacket, her shined shoes barely scuffed.  He sees a man in his twenties with a pocket knife, another man with an asp of all fucking things poking out of his backpack.  A woman with a purse that has a special firearm pocket.  Dean’s carrying a lockblade knife in his jeans, clipped inside the waistband, instead of the pocket.  Karen’s got her piece in her purse, from how the weight’s shifted.  Sammy’s got nothing.  Frank’s light, just hold out and his regular, two knives, neither are big.  Milk run. Makes him feel better to know what else is around.  If he needed to, say if the guy with the asp—

 

“This is us, right?” Dean’s voice breaks through.  He sounds casual, easy, but—

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank agrees, letting it go.  That’s the point, and he don’t need to key up. 

 

Karen takes the lead, somehow parting the way through the station and Frank follows in back, watching how Sammy dogs Karen’s steps easy enough, and Dean hovers, then gives up and slings an arm over Sammy’s shoulders when it gets close, up the tight stairs.  Coming up into the cold feels like waking the rest of the way up, and the streetlights are brighter than the sky by now. 

 

Few minutes later puts them walking by the rink’s long side, the stark white of it nearly searing.  Or maybe that’s just Frank’s eyes, cause Sammy’s head is turned nearly sideways, glued that direction, not even paying much attention to where he’s going at all anymore.  Dean’s pretending as hard as he can that he’s cooler than the ice, like he’s not flicking his eyes all over, not fiddling at the sleeves of his dad’s jacket, a little clumsy in his new gloves.

 

Karen’s phone chimes in her hand, and she zeroes in towards a north pathway.  Frank hangs back, just a step or three, intending it so Nelson will see her first, then the boys.  But then Karen jabs her phone, then looks over—to a side path.

 

Nelson’s standing there, holding a tall cup of java in the shadow of a tree in one hand, his ringing phone in the other.  Must’ve wanted to see what kind of shade Karen wanted to talk about before saying hello.

 

Karen sweeps her hair over her shoulder, less free where it’s kept under her hat.  She heads that way, and Dean puts a hand on Sammy’s shoulder, and they follow Karen.  Frank wants to hang back and keep an eye, wants to not let his presence interfere.  But that’s at war with his complete goddamned unwillingness to let the park’s foot traffic separate them for more than a few seconds (he can’t hear the carousel from here, but--).  So yeah.  Frank follows, too.

 

Karen raises her hand in a wave, which Nelson returns with his coffee cup.  He takes a sip, drawing in steam and exhaling a hard puff right after.  Nelson looks past her, sees the boys and frowns slightly, maybe puzzling it out.  His head bobs, a little double check, not enough to get his now-shorter hair to brush his scarf.  He’s unarmed; no shit though.  Except for the coffee.

 

Then—there it is.  There’s the ratchet uptick of sharp coat shoulders, the hard intake of breath that gets held in, tight.  What Frank _doesn’t_ see is another muscle on Nelson’s face twitch, after.  He’s holding steady, like he’s bracing, and now he’s looking at Karen. 

 

Karen stops a pace or two away, and Frank keeps his distance, though close enough to hear.  The boys post up behind Karen, though Sammy bumps up right near her elbow, no doubt doing the curious-kid face.  Nelson’s made of stone though, but that’s Frank’s fault. 

 

“No.”  That’s the first thing out of Nelson’s mouth.  It falls flat, lands like a stone.

 

“Foggy—“ Karen starts.

 

“I just wanted to know what it felt like, you know.  I think someone told me that I don’t say that often enough, and maybe they were right.  Since you’re bribing me with children while the—While—in public—lurking behind you. I can’t even use the right words because _fugitive,_ ” Nelson recites, pointing with his coffee cup in deliberate, abortive gestures.  Then he adds, deadpan, “Hi, children.”

 

“Hello, douche canoe,” Dean returns with a mock salute.  From the back, Frank’s view, it’s a casual gesture.  But Dean’s also standing squared up, on both feet, like he could throw a punch.

 

“DEAN!” Sammy whispers, loud and harsh, turning and hissing it right at Dean.

 

“What?  Calling me a kid, I thought I should act like it,” Dean says.  “I mean, shit, Sammy.  Assumptions.  Don’t make me say what Bobby says about assumptions—”

 

Sammy’s answer is immediate: “ _Please-do-not-say-it_.”

 

Karen clears her throat, eyebrows way up. “Foggy, this isn’t about Frank.”

 

Frank decides not to say a damn word, as that’s not quite true, since he’s involved, but—it’s more true than not.

 

“How—wait.” Nelson’s gaze shoots back to Frank for one quick second, then rips away.  “Do they—Do you _know who that is behind you?_ ” Nelson’s weird monotone ramps up, starts to fray, and he’s zeroed in on the boys.

 

Sammy speaks, first and immediate: “Yes.  We were neighbors and when our dad died, he helped us out.”

 

Dean though, Dean keeps his mouth shut and waits a few seconds.  He waits until Nelson looks at him before saying anything.  “Yeah.  And by helped out, Sammy means he drove us out to pick up his body.  Dad slipped at work.  But that’s not—“ Dean tilts his head back, then brings it down again, level. 

 

He starts again: “Whatever—I read the papers.  Whatever happened before, that’s not on us.  My brother and me, we’re not a bribe.  We’re not leverage.  You’re a lawyer, who knows someone we know.  And you’re not interested.  Cool.  Great, got it.  There’s other ways.  We’re used to that.  Thanks for coming out.  Bye.”

 

Dean’s already turning, gently nudging Sammy’s shoulder.  Frank watches the war on Sammy’s face, the twisting between loyalty and stubbornness, and sees family win out. 

 

“Thanks,” Sammy echoes.  He looks to Dean, though he also glances back to Frank, “I still want to try ice skating.  Can we stay anyway?  I mean.  Dean’s going to want to stare at girls.”

 

“Sure, kid,” Frank gruffs out.  Like he’d say no.  This is not how he wanted this to go, but then, he should’ve kept his face out of this—

 

“Wait, okay— _wait—“_ Nelson says. His expression’s broken, cracked across his forehead, the unnatural stoicism crumpling away and falling out of his voice, too.  “Hold up—I’m sorry, you’re right, that was a jerk move.  Though you look like you all know you were ambushing me here, so how about we all cut each other some slack, at least temporarily—I must be nuts—and start this over?”

 

“That would be a good idea,” Karen declares.  She’s stayed rooted to her spot, watching this all go down.  Waiting it out.

 

Dean had paused to listen, having just made it the few steps to Frank, and that’s why—while the kid’s still got his back to Karen and Nelson—Frank’s the only one that sees the flicker of _gotcha_ cross Dean’s face, that little intake of breath, the flex of Dean’s fingers on Sammy’s shoulders.  And never mind the quick understanding that hits Sammy’s face when he glances up and sees the same thing.

 

Frank keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t let on.  It’s Dean who turns, and says—“Okay.  Yeah.  Uh, sorry for calling you a douche canoe.”

 

“Yeah, well, you _are_ a kid,” Foggy tells him.  “But thanks.  Let’s—Uh.  Go talk, huh?”  He gestures with the coffee cup. 

 

“There’s benches,” Karen says, takes Foggy’s arm and walks towards the fountain.  The fountain’s not the popular spot right now, cold as it is.  Most people are clustered around the hot drink vendors, the rink, the skate rental.  Foggy takes one end of the bench, Karen sits by him.  Sammy flops on the bench by Karen with a quick smile. 

 

“Where’d you go to college?”  Sammy asks.  “I mean, law school, where’d you go to law school?”

 

“Columbia,” Nelson answers.  Answering Sammy makes his eyes jerk from where he’s watched Frank and Dean. Frank’s got his hood up, hands in his pockets; Dean’s standing near him. 

 

“Wow,” Sammy says, and it’s almost a gasp.  “ _Columbia._ ”

 

Nelson looks _charmed_.  Good job, Sammy.  Still, he looks right back at Frank.  “Why—okay.  No.  How are you coming to me, exactly?  How do you know I won’t call the cops, like, the second I leave?”  Nelson wouldn’t have asked that if they were alone, Frank thinks.  The kids are a shield, maybe, for him to ask.  Or maybe that’s uncharitable.

 

“If you did, they’d blow it off,” Frank tells him.  “Frank Castle died.  I’m Pete Casteleone, and that ID is government-issued.”

 

Nelson blinks, twice. “You’re—the _feds_ gave you a new name?”

 

“You hear about that DHS agent, got shot here, in the park?”  Nelson nods.  “Yeah, well, she was shot by one of the f—scum that killed my family.  I saved her, took out the trash.”  Sammy and Dean shift, a movement echoed by Nelson but not Karen.  It’s uncomfortable for them, Frank guesses, but—he is what he is, like Karen said. 

 

“And they gave you a new name in—what, in gratitude?”

 

“And to keep my mouth shut,” Frank answers.  “So.  That’s what’s going on, _legally_.  So you aren’t obligated to call anybody, counselor.”

 

“Well.  Good to know,” Nelson sighs, looking unhappy, pinched.  “Jesus.  Okay.  Well, so what’d you call me out here for?”

 

“We want to stay with Frank,” Dean says, leading in even as Frank opens his mouth.  “But Sammy’s a kid and.”  He stops, chews on his lip, admits, “I’m sixteen.”

 

“ . . . so you need.  What.  _Guardianship?”_   He stares at Frank, then at the other two.  The idea, right there, being _named_ makes Frank uncomfortable. 

 

“Dean needs to be emancipated.  So he can sign things for Sammy,” Frank says.  
  
“Even if Dean was emancipated, he’d still need to be approved as guardian for Sammy. Which—sorry, alias or not, there isn’t a social worker in the _world_ that’s going to sign off on that one, Frank.  Pete.  What _ever_.”

 

“So what options do they have?”  Karen asks.

 

“ _Legally_?”  Nelson leans back.  “Family law isn’t really my specialty, but there has to be a custodial guardian for a minor—which includes Dean, by the way.”

 

“What would it take to get one of those?”  Sammy asks, Dean too busy scowling.  Frank’s already spinning up a plan in his head.

 

“Um, paperwork?  Lots?  Hearings, home studies and visits.”  He stops, licks his lips.  Takes a sip of his coffee.  “I mean.  If you go the official route.”

 

“The unofficial route?”  Dean prods.

 

“Well, it would be illegal,” Foggy says.  “I mean, totally illegal.  But, you know, _hypothetically_ , you just need IDs to match your story.  Hypothetically.  Which you’d never do, because we are all law-abiding citizens.”

 

“Course,” Dean says, flashing a smile at Nelson.  “Nothing illegal here.”  Frank doesn’t bother hiding his snort. 

 

Nelson gets a sour look on his face, but he wipes it away and looks at Sammy. “So what’s it like, living with Frank?”

 

“It’s great,” Sammy tells him, no guile at all on his face.  “He got us a Christmas tree and took me shopping for presents.”  
  
“He did?”  Dean asks with shock, looking at Frank.

 

“Gonna take you out later,” Frank tells him.  “So you can get something for Sammy.”

 

It doesn’t seem like a big deal to Frank.  Kids deserve Christmas presents; Frank’s parents, though there’d been some struggling years when he was younger, had always found a way to put something under the tree.  It was just the thing to do. But Dean looks at Frank like he’s gobsmacked, and Karen looks a little misty, and Nelson looks like he needs to take a shit all of a sudden. 

 

“What?”  Frank asks.  “You think just ‘cause I shoot bad guys I forgot about Christmas?”  As though that weren’t _exactly_ what he’d almost done.

 

“He buys groceries, too,” Sammy supplies.  “And helps me with my homework.”  Sammy turns his biggest smile on Nelson and Karen.  “I know you think he’s a bad guy because of what he did.  And what he did means he’s maybe not a _good_ guy, but there’s a place in the middle, right?  I was reading about it.  Like an anti-hero.”

 

“I ain’t a character in a story, kid,” Frank gruffs at him, even if it . . . it touches him, inside, someplace where he hasn’t felt in a while, to have somebody believe in him like that.  Not even Karen believes in him like that, he doesn’t think, even if she understands him better. 

 

“He’s not,” Nelson answers.  “If this were a story, you could just live with Frank—Pete—forever and nobody would get into any trouble with CPS.”  Sammy swings his feet, looking a little dejected, and Frank _sees_ the moment Nelson caves.  “But.  But hypothetically if there were paperwork.”

 

“Then we’d be okay to stay,” Dean says.  His voice is rough, his head’s hanging a little.  “Dean and Sammy Casteleone, huh?”

 

Frank feels gut-punched.  “I need a minute,” he says, sudden, surprising himself, and turns on his heel to go and claim that minute.  He walks away, off the trail, into the cold dark under the trees.  He walks until the noise of the crowd quiets and he’s left with the roaring in his ears, Frankie and Lisa simultaneously laughing and screaming.  Frank presses his hands into the bark of a tree, lets go to rip his gloves off and presses again, fingers digging in to the cold bark.  He presses his forehead there too, trying to silence his head. 

 

By slow degrees, it works.  His breathing calms.  His blood does.  This.  This is a necessary fiction, he thinks.  They aren’t his kids.  His kids, his babies, are dead and buried.  These kids need a chance, that’s all.  And if they need to wear his fake name, that shouldn’t be a big deal. That shouldn’t clutch at his heart. 

 

It shouldn’t make him _want_.

 

Frank punches the tree, twice, not pulling his punches, feeling his skin split over the knuckles on the cold wood.

 

“Hey,” Dean says.  He says it from a careful distance away, and Frank sighs, face still hidden.  He stands up straight, turns to see Dean alone.  There’s enough light from the paths, bouncing up dull white of the snow on the ground, that Frank can see Dean bite his lip.  “Sorry.  I shouldn’t have assumed.  Made an ass out of me, I guess.  Not you, though.”  The kid tries on a grin, trying to make a joke, but it fails, shaking and fragile.

 

Frank shakes his head.  “Where’s Sammy?”

 

“Sitting with Karen. Probably getting questioned more,” Dean tells him.  Frank takes in the tense line of his body. 

 

Frank covers the distance between them.  Stops to look him in the eye, hooks a hand around the back of his neck.  Frank’s gloves are on the ground, someplace.  He’ll find them in a minute.  “I’m fucked up,” Frank tells him.  “I got ghosts, Dean, the kind that you can’t shoot, and sometimes they come up.  Never know when that’s gonna happen.  So sometimes I gotta just . . . go.  And that’s not on you.”

 

Dean’s eyes are big and watery, but Frank knows he’s doing everything he can to not just let them spill.  “You’re not the only one with ghosts,” Dean tells him.  His voice is rough, his body tightened up and his arms tucked into his body, shoulders hunched.  Defensive.  John wonders if his dad ever hit him.  “I know we aren’t your kids.”

 

“I’d be lucky to have you,” Frank blurts, meaning it.  “You hear me?  I’d be fucking _lucky_.”

 

Dean’s eyes widen, and then he steps in.  This is the second time Dean’s hugged him; the first was when he came to Frank and told him that his dad was dead.  Frank holds him tight, knowing Dean isn’t a kid who hugs.  What sixteen year old boy is?  It costs Dean something to do this and like hell is Frank gonna push him away. 

“Uh.  Sorry—still.  Sorry.” Dean mumbles it, doesn’t move for a second or two, face half-turned, half-buried against Frank’s shoulder.  The kid’s still got some growing to do.

 

“Yeah, I know you are.  Just trying to do what man does—owning up.  Taking responsibility, trying to make it right,” Frank tries to focus on that, the pattern of it.  Easier than the weird echoes still going on in his head, faint but still there.  “You used to that.  Owning up.  Want to take it on, even when it’s not always yours.  Got to learn the difference.”

 

Dean clutches a second, then pulls back, puffs a little air out in a laugh.  It’s forced, but he’s going with it, rubs his nose with the back of his sleeve.  “You saying—do what a man does, huh?  You going to keep calling me kid?”

 

“Said _trying,_ ” Frank grins, manages it, manages it without the gallows shadow tugging his head into a bow.  Thumps his hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezes it, feeling how cold the leather of Dean’s father’s jacket is, how many layers are stacked up under it. 

 

Dean snorts, a little ragged from phlegm, and makes a face at himself.  “Jesus.  Okay um.  We good to go save friggin’ Matlock and Karen from Sammy’s charms?  Where’s your gloves?”

 

Christ, kid cannot help himself, can he?  Always trying to take care.

 

“Around here somewhere—” Frank says.  “How the hell do you know _Matlock_ when you didn’t know MacGuyver?”

 

“Dude, reruns—We had this one motel we stayed at, all we got was the Hallmark channel.  Matlock, Golden Girls—dirty old ladies—and like, Frasier.  Solid month one summer,” Dean says.  He grins, “And dude’s no Saul Goodman, I mean, probably, so hey—and I hope he’s not an Atticus, because that’d suck to be so noble probably, right?  But anyway—hey, here’s one—”

 

A few minutes later, gloves found, Frank’s hands aching a little as they warm back up, knuckles and fingertips, they’re coming back out.  The bench is empty, and Dean’s head is swiveling immediately—Frank starts seeing every concealed carry and too-tight clutched bag, every too-quick shuffling step, despite knowing logically, that’s fucking stupid, because it probably just got a little cold sitting, makes sense—

 

“Oh hey.” Dean lets out, then nods over to the rink side where Karen’s leaning, having acquired a cup of something steaming that she’s got in both hands.  “Too late for the rescue.”

 

Frank adjusts his hood, and Dean gets bold and tugs his sleeve when he doesn’t move his planted feet immediately. 

 

“Oh yeah?” Frank asks, like he hasn’t seen already where Karen’s looking. 

 

Sammy has apparently conned Nelson into renting ice skates.  The man is wearing a suit and that structured lawyer getup coat, but right now is off at the staging area around by the rental point, doing something to Sammy’s laces, getting them tied up—the laces are long on the smaller pairs.  Frank’s fingertips itch.  They burn.

 

“Uh-huh.” Dean’s pride is just oozing out all over, and he’s got a bounce in his step as he leans up against the barrier by the rink, by Karen.  Frank’s following still, quieter of course, and he turns sideways, unwilling to put his back to the path fully. 

 

Karen’s picked her place to watch, strategically, made it possible for them to stand with her, Frank realizes.  She also picked somewhere near a rink speaker, and even if they’re far enough from the carousel that Frank still can’t hear it, can’t see the lights, that makes damn sure of it.  If they had gone around the path though—

 

“Your brother is _slick,_ ” Karen’s already telling Dean.

 

“He’s smart as hell, isn’t he?” Dean’s beaming, watching now.  “Though let’s see if he falls on his aaa—butt.  Is Nelson going to actually skate, or did he just—walk him over?”

 

“Apparently, he used to play peewee hockey.  Said something about a cousin who went semi-pro.  So he’s going to show your brother how to stand.  Apparently Foggy was, oh, what did he say—” and here Karen makes a little shoulder shake and grins, mimicking Nelson’s affect—“’I wasn’t great at scoring or doing much of anything _useful_ , but I was really hard to knock down.  That totally counted for something during the earlier years.’”

 

Dean laughs. “I’ll take it.”

 

“They won’t be out too long though—the Zamboni’s going to be on in like, half an hour apparently?  So the rink’s clearing out early—If you want to get out there, you should head around—”

 

“That what now?  And naw, I’m good—”

 

Frank lets Karen’s explanation of ice conditioning and nuances of hockey game ice, apparently—didn’t know she watched—fade a little.  Dean’s questions go conversational, keeping the flow of words going under the cutting noise of ice under skates.  The kid’s eyes are glued to his brother, and the only thing that breaks the easy back and forth are the bursts of pride Dean can’t keep to himself—

_Hey, look at that, he’s picking it up so damn fast, I’d be on my butt five times by now_ —

_Picking up some speed there, getting the ankle stuff right.  Probably figuring out how it’s the same as inline skates, you watch, by the time they get around here_ —

_Yeah, okay, so Matlock’s probably a good teacher too.  They seem to be getting along.  People love Sammy in like ten minutes or less.  He just can’t help it, hah—_

 

Karen’s got that look, the one that if Frank hadn’t been on the receiving end of before, he might not even know it was there.  Her eyebrow twitches slightly, she tilts her head just a little.  She’s paying attention between the words.  Dean’s giving away more than he realizes, but then, loving his little brother isn’t such a secret, and that’s the biggest thing other than travel and keeping warmer places in the winter. 

 

Frank hides a grin, and keeps an eye on the beat cop walking along sipping his coffee, hears the hiss of the police radio on his shoulder.  Officer keeps going.  So does the short woman with the heavy steps and the hard look to her face, who’s got a piece in a shoulder holster under her coat.  So does the idiot teenager with the pocket knife he keeps checking on, wiggling his gloved hands back to his jeans pocket, adjusting.

 

The walking traffic clears out for a few seconds, the natural sort of break that happens sometimes, and so Frank looks to the rink longer, sees Sammy doing great just like Dean said: not quite steady, but keeping up and waving their direction in a quick gesture.  His face is almost breaking in half with the grin, and Dean waves back, so does Karen.  Nelson’s skating backwards beside Sammy like it’s easier than breathing, lawyer-fancy coat not even in the way.  Says something that makes Sammy laugh.

 

Yeah, the kid’s a charmer.  Both of the boys are, though.

 

“And that—there’s the Zamboni—” Karen points. 

 

“Well sh—” Dean swerves—”Uh, crap.  Then again, it’s got to be cold out there—”

 

Frank’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and that’s unusual enough that he looks around, reflex, checks the area.  Sees—nothing he missed. 

 

A second vibration, and he counts again the people who had his last number, whose calls would automatically forward to this one.  Then thinks he’s being an idiot, and makes himself tear his eyes away from scanning to look, to actually see. 

 

He can’t hear anything but steps, the slush of skates, blood roar, rhythms looking for the off kilter—Conversation’s gone, canned instrumental holiday shit from the rink’s gone—

 

The number: it’s Curt.  Jesus, Frank’s a fuckin’ basket case.  He realizes, then, he’s not been to see Curt since—shit.  Months.  Since he started up again, he tapered off, couldn’t look the group in the eye when they were done with their wars and trying to stay that way.  And here he’d dove right back in.

 

Frank decides to not be a chicken shit though, and steps away to thumb on the answer—“Hey.”  Though he keeps an eye on the crowd, still.

 

“Listen to you, answering the phone.” Curt says, after a pause.  The background’s too quiet to hear over the noise of the park, the steps and the ice and.  “Just checking in.  Was surprised the number still worked, after it’d been so long.  After some things I saw in the papers.”

 

“Had to know it was coming,” Frank hears himself saying, stops himself from reaching up and rubbing his hand over his mouth. 

 

“I hoped it wouldn’t,” comes Curt’s reply. 

 

“Yeah, well.”  Frank keeps his head bowed, slightly, but still keeps his eyes open.  There’s some commotion off to the south (the other direction from the carousel, Frank had to make note of, deliberately).  Someone waving front the trees, a kid about twelve or so. 

“You all right for the holidays?” Curt’s asking.

 

It occurs to Frank that Curt spent his Thanksgiving probably with some of the group.  “Turns out.  Let me call you back?”

 

Dean’s heading towards the waving kid, shoulders hunched forward a little again the wind that’s picked up, slipping through the foot traffic that’s mostly ignoring anything unusual.  Which is pretty much the fuckin’ definition _of_ usual, truth be.  Karen’s stepped up beside Frank, waiting to say something, looking like she doesn’t want to eavesdrop.  But he didn’t walk far, so she’s probably heard every word.

 

Curt’s been quiet, probably listening to what’s on Frank’s end of the line.  “You don’t, I’m going to call you back.”

 

“Won’t have to,” Frank tells him, then hangs up.  Looks over at Karen, “Where’s the kid going?”

 

“Seeing what’s happening.  I said I’d keep an eye on Sammy coming off the ice—Zamboni means everyone had to take a break anyway, so.  Foggy will probably pack it in, get back to the office now that his socks are charmed off.”  Karen grins. 

 

Her eyes dart to where Dean ran off, where he’s talking, and Frank follows the look for a second, then has to look past her to where he can’t see the rental area well enough, where he can’t keep a good enough eye on where Sammy is.  Dean’s trusting them all to keep an eye on his brother, or maybe trusting Sammy to keep an eye on himself.  Maybe Frank’s just paranoid.   He tries to keep an eye on both of them, Dean’s back weaving through the foot traffic, back to the rink and Sammy, too.

 

Frank, feeling pulled thin by the park, by the whole damn day, by the whole damn _season,_ is torn.  But in the end he trusts Dean.  He turns a bit more to keep an eye on Sammy, finding Nelson first, then Sammy, bouncing on his toes at Nelson’s side as they head over to Frank and Karen.  Frank braces himself a little for more judgement from Nelson—and he gets it.

 

“So the kids are cute,” Nelson tells them both.  “And it is clear you’re going to do this with or without my legal help. But.”  He draws himself up, just a little, then relaxes his shoulders.  Frank wonders if he’s thinking about dealing with Murdock, bracing himself to let arguments wash over him.  “I also can’t just let this go without some assurance that these kids are actually okay.  You know that, right?”

 

“You want house visits,” Frank says, dry, frown on his face.  Feels like a crease.

 

“Foggy,” Karen says, vaguely disapproving.  But then she shrugs a shoulder, the gleam of her hair shifting against her coat.  “I could do it,” she offers, and Frank opens his mouth to say that’d be great—

 

“No offense,” Nelson breaks in, about as subtle as a car door slamming.  “But you’re not exactly neutral on the subject.”  
  
“Neither are you, counselor,” Frank tells him, not worried about subtle either.

 

“I don’t harbor any _particular_ ill-will,” Nelson says.  “I think you’re a bag of psycho, sure, but I don’t personally hate you.”  
  
“Thanks for that,” Frank says, dry again.  Sammy rolls his eyes, crosses the distance, and leans against Frank’s side.  Putting a hand on his shoulder is just reflex, even if he _knows_ Sammy is doing the kid thing.

 

“How about a compromise?” Karen suggests.  “I’ll come over more often.  And Foggy can come with me.  Two birds, one stone?”  She looks at Frank like Frank’s gonna think that’s a good idea; like Frank’s going to be happy with Nelson there, when Frank could be talking to Karen.  The idea of Nelson in the apartment, too, makes him itch.  Feels exposed.

 

“Murdock doesn’t get brought in on this,” Frank says. 

 

“Aw, you think me and Matt are still talking,” Nelson says with a smile that’s a little raw and a lot brittle.  “You have no idea just how angry I am with him, do you?  Or how often I _don’t_ see him, huh?”

 

“Karen mentioned something happened.”  If Frank left it at that—

 

“Something,” Nelson says with a bark of a laugh, a laugh that’s mostly bitter but that also demonstrates the depths of Nelson’s unhappiness.  “Right.  _Anyway_.  No danger of that, is the point.”  He claps his hands together, leather gloves making a dull sound.  “I need to go.  We’ll use Karen as the middleman.  Middle-woman?”

 

“Contact?”  Karen says.  She’s angled her body more towards Frank, and Frank isn’t sure she’s aware she’s done it.  Frank is.  Knowing they both aren’t ready for something—he’d wondered, briefly, for a while there, if it would make things easier, being around her.  Turns out no.  Turns out he’s still noticing the curve of her jaw and the sheen of her hair and the pink of her cheeks. 

 

“Sure,” Nelson says with a grin.  “Contact.  I’ll get some things together.  Strictly hypothetical things, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” Frank says.  And because he’s the bigger man, least he thinks _set a goddamned example_ or something like it, he puts his hand out to shake.  “Congratulations on the new gig, by the way. Karen says you got it ‘cause of my trial.” 

 

“Turns out, even just almost getting a not-guilty gets you noticed, if it’s for a bag of psycho.  You know, the right circumstances.”  Nelson smiles, and the man’s got cojones, and he shakes Frank’s hand.  Nothing to criticize about that handshake, though Frank’d been prepared to.  When he’d met Nelson, he’d thought of Nelson as soft and pampered; Nelson’s changed, though, since the trial.  “Nice to meet you, Sammy.”  
  
“You too,” Sammy chirps.  “Where’s Dean?  Is he looking at girls?”

 

Frank turns his head—can no longer see Dean on the path.  Or the kid Dean was talking to.  Despite himself, his vision narrows a little, focusing on identifying threats and dangers, unable to hear anything over the Zamboni and the speakers and wanting to throw his hood back to get his peripheral vision back, hear better dammit, but no—

 

The tinkling of the carousel is his imagination.  It is.  Frank shifts his head from one side to the other, as if clearing his mind.  The tension in his neck and along his back feels tight enough to snap, but the cold’s gone.  He can’t pay attention to anything but sight, sound, and the remaining concentration he has, he pours into keeping the hand on Sammy’s shoulder gentle, loose.  Trigger discipline.

 

Quick movement to the side, and Frank reflexively turns, putting Sammy and Karen behind him.  He doesn’t shove them, just positions himself to be the first target.  No need—it was Dean, and Frank’s fucking head needs a break.  Dean’s grinning, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, like he’s been running.  “How was it, Sammy?” He asks, moving right into Sammy’s space. 

 

Sammy wriggles away, giggling. “I fell on my ass!” 

 

It startles a laugh out of Nelson and a giggle from Karen.

 

Frank feels like his face is frozen, like he’s stuck behind himself, just watching it happen.  Dean looks up at him, gets it, and says—“Hey, Frank, can we head home?  My hands are frozen and I’m _starving_.”

 

It’s a lie, Frank knows.  Immediately.  Dean’s still wearing those tac gloves, gloves that keep a sniper’s circulation going while he waits in the snow for his mark.  Dean’s lying, Dean is taking care.  Dean is giving them an out.

 

Frank sucks in some measure of control, a quick breath, and says, feeling lost, “Yeah, kid, let’s go.”

 

“We’ll be in touch,” Karen says, shifting to stand near Foggy.  Frank doesn’t know if she’s caught on to the crazy that’s got to be lurking in Frank’s eyes.  Frank and the boys leave the park, Dean maneuvering so that he’s on one side of Frank, Sammy on the other.  Frank bumps shoulders with Dean.  They walk several blocks in the cold before Sammy’s string of chatter fades away.  It’s starting to snow again, the flakes settling weightless and glimmering on eyelashes, shoulders, and hats. 

 

Frank’s feeling it again, aware.  Temperature seeping back in.

 

“Thanks,” Sammy says, looking up at Frank.  His cheeks are pink from the cold, from the walk.

 

Frank lets out a shuddering breath.  “Let’s get a taxi,” he says.  His hand, back on Sammy’s shoulder, guides him to the curb, and with Sammy’s enthusiastic hailing (he’s getting good at it) they soon are seated in a taxi that’s so warm it’s almost shocking.  Quiet music in a language Frank’s heard before but doesn’t recognize filters from the radio, and the driver makes friendly small talk with Sammy, who sat in the front seat before Dean could argue. 

 

In the back, Frank looks down at his knees, listens to Sammy ask polite questions about the driver’s accent and answer questions about his age and does he do well in school.  “Study very hard,” the driver tells him.  “It’s very important.”

 

“I know,” Sammy says, with gravity.  “I’m gonna go to college.”

 

“What every father wants for their son,” the driver says, warming, and Frank really can’t take anymore.  But they’re at their building.  Sammy races up ahead of them, giggling, and Dean follows him not far behind.  The boys have already taken off their winter things and hung them to dry when Frank comes in, securing the door behind them. 

 

“What do you want for dinner?”  Dean asks, quiet, face serious.  Frank can hear Sammy moving around in the bedroom he shares with Dean. 

 

“I think I’m gonna turn in,” Frank says.  “Dean.”

 

Dean kind of freezes in place.  Frank meets his eyes—nods.  Dean relaxes, nods back, message received.  Frank heads into the bedroom, and there he mechanically stows his gear, his winter layers.  He sits on the bed with a handgun in his hand, taps the barrel on his thigh.  Safety’s on, of course.  Finger on the guard, staying there.  Nowhere near the trigger.

 

It’s the first time in months he’s seriously considered blowing his fucked up brains out.  He knows, even as he thinks about it, that he won’t do it—and not just because he still needs to see Billy Russo’s mangled face in person.  Sammy’s talking has abated, probably reading, and Dean’s getting some food ready.  Frank can hear him moving around in the kitchen.  Frank puts the gun in its place under the bed, and sits.

 

Frank sits real quiet, and listens to them. 

 

Late, Dean knocks on the door.  “Come on,” Frank says, having to clear his voice.  He wipes at his face.

 

Dean does come in, bringing with him the bottle of whiskey and a glass.  He pours for Frank without asking, hands it to him.  He leans against the dresser, where he’s put the bottle down.  “You don’t have to do this,” Dean tells him, and Frank can tell looking that Dean’s come in here with armor or, ready to take whatever Frank says.  If Frank takes the exit Dean’s offering. 

 

He shakes his head.  “Some things are just hard,” Frank says, taking a sip of the whiskey. 

 

“Was it because—of the—name thing?”

 

“Naw, kid,” Frank says.  “I was already—It.”  He stops, clears his throat again, looks up at him.  “You go down one of those paths by the rink, and there’s the carousel.  Painted horses, my little girl called ‘em.  That’s where they died.” He stops, eyes running away from Dean’s.  He hates watching people try to figure out what to say.

 

“I didn’t know that part,” Dean answers.  “Shit, Frank.”

 

“It was my idea,” Frank says, wave of his hand, the one holding the whiskey.  “I thought—something else happened there.  I thought I’d remember that, instead.  Not the way things work, I guess.”

 

“Sorry I ran off.”  That’s what Dean says next, and Frank wonders if that’s Dean’s habit of taking some kind of blame, or if Dean has figured out that _Not being able to see Dean_ had been the final straw to crack through the veneer of Frank’s sanity tonight.

 

“You came back,” Frank tells him.  “Listen.  It’s not your fault I got a hair trigger.”

 

“The kid,” Dean says.  “He found something, in the trees.”

 

“Your line of business or mine?”  Frank asks.

 

“Mine,” Dean says, tilting his chin up.  “Or, you know, ours.  If you want.”

 

“Okay,” Frank says after a minute.  “Gimmie a day. Then our business.”

 

Dean—Dean beams.  Before he can stop himself, just grins all over his face.  “Okay.  There’s leftovers in the fridge, if you want.”

 

“Thanks.”  Dean heads to the door, and Frank says again.  “Dean.  Thanks.” 

 

Dean leaves the whiskey, but Frank only finishes what’s in his glass.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Punisher canon typical violence in this chapter, please be aware.

Frank doesn’t sleep that night, and is gone in the morning before the boys wake up, but he left Christmas presents, wrapped neatly in the paper Sammy picked—ice skating walruses—next to the little tree. Christmas isn't for a few days, and he wants the kids to know he plans to come back. He leaves a note for the boys, that he has errands to run and might not be back before tomorrow night.  He has his phone.  They can reach him if they need him.  He makes sure the fridge has plenty of food, but leaves a couple of twenties on the fridge under the note, telling them to get pizza or something if they want.

 

He takes a duffel bag with him when he goes.  It's heavy.  It clinks quietly as he walks, despite the wrap up and the careful packing.  The stowed ammo makes a nearly cheerful fucking jingling noise when he drops it in the back of the van.  The long term garage he keeps the van in has some holiday music eking out of a rattling speaker somewhere, echoing weird and wordless in the early morning.

 

Frank looks at his packed tight, black ammo-jingling duffle, a big damn bag of death.  Thinks, honest to fucking God: _Worst Santa ever._ It’s in Dean’s voice.

 

“Christ,” Frank says.  The word falls flat, quiet, and he closes the back of the van gently, so the sound doesn’t carry.  He wraps his hands around the steering wheel and heads out, because he’s been keeping up, even if he’s not been out as much, not been taking out as much trash as he could be.  Should be. 

 

Sleeplessness, he’s been trained to handle. The raw feeling. He’s handled plenty times before.  But it’s more than that. 

 

He grips the steering wheel, makes himself focus, finds a memory to let his conscious mind fixate on so his lizard brain can worry about driving, worry about watching his six and keeping his instincts the right level of sharp. 

 

He remembers:  Last December.  South.  Gripping a neck and squeezing, feeling flesh slide and tendons flutter, strain, then give up and collapse, pulse threading to nothing.  Watching capillaries burst and flood a cartel drug runner’s eyes, then relaxing his grip, seeing desperation win out against logic, because suffocation is a hell of a way to go.  Get air, give answers.  Frank obliged on the air, then gave the scum a bullet, quick.  _Merry Christmas, Maria._

After a roil of hot bitterness, anger at himself for even thinking shit like that, he’d stood there in the puddle of sunlight streaming in through the dirty fucking windows. Gone ice cold.  Then he’d set the whole trailer on fire.  Stink of hocked prescriptions going up was worse than pressboard and glue. 

 

Frank’s lizard brain knows what it’s doing: He’s got the alley he wants.  Frank gets the duffel, heads out, around, then finds his spot.  The pawn shop he’s found is somewhere that the cops know about, but can’t prove.  Low level money laundering and taking in all sorts of stolen shit—Lately, he’s become a fence for fences though, on top of the other shit.  Goddamned entrepreneur for the basic scum who rob and kill for forty dollars or a smart watch.  Someone for scum to aspire to become.

  
Someone who just happened to have rented out space across the alley, but hasn’t renovated yet.  Which means Frank has an ambush point, a surveillance point, and he can listen in.  Be sure who shows up today deserves to never show up anywhere else again.  Then—then Frank can pop out like the monster he is, and ruin that scum’s last day on earth.  End it quick though—the idea of some two-bit mugger, some thief coming back and _haunting_ —that was the word.  It was, there wasn’t another word for it.  Christ.

 

Quantity over quality. 

 

_Christ._

 

The day goes by.  It goes like he thought it would, like he needed it to.  His stakeout hole, his temporary goddamned lair—it smells like copper and pain by the time the sun’s high and beating down the center of alley, bouncing against the pavement and bricks and garbage.  It’s a cold day, clear, makes his snatches feel outlined in black and red when he appears to drag a new lowlife in from the bright daylight. 

 

Before midafternoon, the room stinks of piss and fear, too. 

 

Frank lets them get a good whiff, lets them know what he heard, that he knows what they were here doing, that they can try—they can _try—_ and then gets names to follow-up on.  Some names are real, good leads, some are confirms or neighborhoods, some repeat each other.  Some are fake, because a desperate tumble of _anything you want_ sounds different than a _don’t let this be the end, take them instead_ plea. 

 

A few refuse to talk, but only a few.  One woman tells him to go ahead and cut her.  She’s silent when she goes out, a gurgle and a red, weird grin.  When her eyes lose focus, Frank checks her pockets for ID, and the frisk only finds a baggie with white shit in it.  When he wipes the knife on her shirt, hauls her back with the rest, he thinks—he stops thinking.  He heard.  He flashes the back room, sees. 

 

Sees—

 

Hears footsteps in the alley again.  A trash can bang.  Frank closes his eyes in the dim of the back room, and breathes in, smells death, and it feels like old times.  Except he’s alone.  Except the street outside is too close, and there’s no silent desert, no chattering of guns.  Except no fucking carousel, no Billy taunting him. 

 

Just him and footsteps, unsteady—no.  Some asshole taking out the trash, doing a little dance or some shit.  Right in Frank’s crosshairs.  But he didn’t—the asshole leaves.  Lucky bastard.

 

Frank reaches up and rubs his forehead, where his whole head feels tight and still and ready.  Quiet and roaring at the same time.  That—That feels right. 

 

His forehead’s wet.  Frank checks his hand—in the gloom, it’s red.  Bad biosafety.  He can’t—he can’t do that.

 

Frank cleans up.  Sanitizes.  It’s late afternoon by the time he’s done, by the time he’s ready for the last step.  The alley’s dark, streetlights not yet on though.  This hotspot’s cooler by now--

 

He gets some fluid, wets a ring around the pile, sets it alight.  The brick shell, the cinderblock and hard ceiling, should keep the fire contained.   The salt and the fire should take care of any ghosts Frank made today. Then he goes outside.  He walks up, head turned, no painted vest—Broker’s got a camera staring down from the very top of his doorframe, tiny little round eye, peering right down. 

 

Frank don’t want this following him home.  There’s all sorts of ways to sign his work, to make sure that the scum out there _knows_.  That’s the important thing. 

 

Frank stands to the side, head turned, downward and distracted—he knocks hard, fast, same knock the thieves gave. 

 

Then he bangs again, not a second later, lays on a thicker voice, a little heavier New York than he normally carries.  Military drummed some of that out, knocked it flat, but it’s easy to call back sometimes—“Yo, building next door’s got smoke coming out of it, you got something stashed in there?  Should I be standing this close?  Hey!”

 

He leaves his knuckles on the door, sliding them down.  Let’s his left hand rest against the door while he turns and looks and watches a little curl.  Feels the vibration of the door unlock, the handle—

 

When it opens, the broker’s got a pistol— _semi-auto 9mm Glock, sure—_ got an annoyed face and his mouth fixed open in a grimace. 

 

Frank isn’t sure what his own face looks like.  The broker looks though, and his red face drains white in a flash.  He recoils, shrinks away so fast he stumbles backwards onto his heels, sucking air fast and hard like he’s going to let it out again in a scream or a yell— 

 

Frank surges forward and catches his throat in one hand, catches the Glock in the other.  Keeps the air stuck in the man’s puffed out chest.  Both hands tight, crushing hard, throat and gun hand. 

 

Bones scream stuck between Frank’s gloves and the hard metal of the gun’s grip, the scum’s knuckles making dull _pop pop pop_ noises.  Frank grins, teeth bared, and feels his gloves grip on the sweat of the man’s neck, the catch and compression of tendons in in the scum’s neck.  Feels familiar, old times, and Frank’s conscious mind and lizard brain are in full fucking agreement there. 

 

The broker—he tries a full body heave, and Frank lets him, lets the scum see how it doesn’t move Frank’s hands at all.  The broker tries again, gets a back against the wall, tries to use it as leverage—Frank lets him do that too—

 

Then Frank squeezes harder to make the point.  The wind outside whistles in the alley, and then the door bangs shut, locks automatically.  Then Frank’s stripping the gun right out of the broker’s limp hand, letting the man try and claw at the grip Frank’s got squeezing his throat shut.  But it’s too late.  Should’ve gone for the eyes. 

 

Frank watches red bloom up in the parasite’s eyes, watches the way his nails slide off Frank’s gloves without even getting purchase.  Frank thumbs the safety onto the gun, puts it off to the side, on a shelf Frank can reach but the parasite can only dream about now.  But maybe that’s too soon to say—The scum finally tries to go for Frank’s eyes.  It doesn’t work, just makes the dirty linoleum squelch under their feet when the broker almost slips.

 

“Naw, too late for that,” Frank tells him, a whisper, leaning in.  The carbon dioxide build up’s going to start to sting soon.  Frank knows how that feels.  Frank holds on for it, stares the scum in the eyes the whole time, until they roll back.  They’d show white, if there was any white left in them.

 

Frank counts, making sure, and listens to the quiet.  His own breathing, in and out through his nose, and realizes he can only hear the radio up front.  Nobody else.  He should’ve checked that earlier.  Then again—he’d have dealt with it.  Who else would come here?

 

Finally—Frank relaxes his grip, lets the scum drop.  Flexes his hands in the air, feels his muscle sing a little when he watches the sack of human shit slide to the ground.  The parasite’s neck is swelling, purple angry against the red of his face, a hand shape.  Frank nudges the broker with a toe, watches the man wheeze.  Takes more than a choke out to really kill someone—have to hold it for a long while, or break something.  Frank probably should’ve.  Could still.  Depends on what he finds.  But leaving a sign—he wants that too.  He can’t just walk away from this, it’s going to have leads.

 

Frank checks the scum for more weapons, finds none, takes the Glock with him when he continues his walkthrough.  Locks the front, flips the sign, goes to work.  Parasite’s a recordkeeper.  Good if he’s caught for tax evasion, for flipping thieves to the law.  Bad if someone like Frank starts poking around.  Scum’s got a rash of uptown numbers in his book, no names.  Frank starts calling the numbers with the broker’s phone, hanging up when someone answers.  Leaving blank voice mails when someone doesn’t. 

 

By that time, the broker’s awake, starts making panicked noises against the tape gag, struggling to untape his hands from behind his back.  Trying to deal, trying to squeal, trying to beg.  Hell, maybe trying to give out information, but Frank’s not interested.  His own neck’s itching.  His skin feels raw and weird, and he feels like he’s been here too long.  The killing high’s not lasting—

 

That’s what it is.  He knows it.

 

Frank ignores the broker, the scum.  The man kept his security cam footage with no password on it, and shit, even Frank can figure it out from there.  He rewinds, erases himself, logs out of the account.  It’s the second to last thing he does in the store.

 

The last thing he does is take care of the broker, using the man’s own gun, puts it in the scum’s own unbound hands after.  Then Frank’s staking out the alley from a block away.  The first one to show up to investigate the phone calls is a couple of white men in suits.  Frank takes pictures.  They check on the curl of smoke coming out the building next door.  They leave fast. 

 

No firemen come.

 

No one else comes.  A few minutes later, a pedestrian notices the smoke, calls it in.

 

Frank gets the hell out of there before the firetruck actually shows.  He feels low, he feels like gutter water.  His hands ache, though he did good work.  The right work.  Fire investigation will turn up the cops.  Cops will figure out the rest.  Phone calls.  Frank’ll keep track.  The right people will know it was him, the wrong people won’t.  It won’t blowback in ways he don’t want it to.

 

Dropping off the van’s easy.  Backup drop point, just in case.  Frank takes a walk, duffel redistributed, looking like a regular ruck.  Winter means everyone’s got hoods and hats and he has to walk a while, take some care.  Better to not be on cameras.  Make sure.

 

His phone rings—vibrates, more like—in his pocket, deep under all his layers.  Frank feels a lump of ice form in his chest, because the boys wouldn’t call unless there was a reason.  Dean would know better.

 

So Frank pulls a halt, moves off to the side of the foot traffic.  But then the ice turns to cold water in the desert.  “Goddamn.”  He should not answer the phone that way, not laughing either, but he just can’t fucking help it.

 

“Well goddamn to you too, Frank,” Curt says after a few seconds’ pause.  “I did say I’d call back.  But something tells me that is not why you’re saying it.”

 

“No, brother,” Frank admits.  “Though I did mean to.  I was going to.”

 

“When?  Next Christmas?”

 

“Before then.”  Frank eyeballs the area.  The pocket of pedestrians he had fallen into have moved on, foot traffic’s shifted.  He wants to pick another group to blend with.  Better with tourists, so his pack doesn’t stand out as much.

 

“Thanksgiving does not count,” Curt tells him.

 

“Independence day?” Frank tries.  He tries.

 

Curt knows him.  “You’ve been missed.  For a while now.”

 

“Bullshit.  I wasn’t doing anyone any good,” Frank knows that for sure.

 

“Bullshit yourself, you don’t know your ass from your elbow half the time.  Come by.  Have some coffee.  It’s just me—Let me see your ugly mug.”  Curt doesn’t ask, he says it, he measures it out.  He uses that same persuasive voice he used to use when he’d tell someone to hold on, because something was going to hurt.  But Curt was always trying to save a life when he pulled that tone, when he told you to hold on. 

 

It’s different from his therapy voice, the group voice.  Frank knows them both now.  Some people just don’t quit. 

 

Frank sees a good group to fall into.  There’s a cluster of people coming out of the subway in a clot, some with backpacks, some with rolling bags.  Tourist group or some shit.  Frank waits for them to pass, breathing and listening to the city chatter, clatter, a siren or two and some yelling.

 

Curt waits him out.

 

“Yeah, okay.”  Frank falls into step at the back of the group, easy strides.  His heels itch, his knuckles feel raw, he can smell blood and the stringent smell of sanitation products in his nose. 

 

“Okay then.  See you in a few.”  Curt confirms it.  He sounds relieved.

 

“Not too long,” Frank says back. 

 

He hangs up, listens to the woman in front of him laugh with a girl who must be her daughter.  The girl elbows a younger boy into paying attention to where he’s going instead of texting or some shit.  They’ve got the same carroty red hair.  They’ve got accents—midwestern.

 

Frank feels displaced, wrong, like an intruder tagging along and using their group for cover.  He wonders what the boys are up to.  At the light, waiting to cross, Frank texts before he thinks better of it.  Dean’s number—

 

_Checking in.  OK?_

 

The answer comes pretty quick.  _OK.  You?_

 

For a second, the truth sits ugly on his fingertips, tempted to appear on the screen.  Asking for it.

 

Somebody who is okay does not do what he does.  Frank stands there, shifts his bag on his shoulder.  Feels the weight. 

 

He types back: _OK.  Heading to see a friend.  I’ll be home tonight._ Frank feels his jaw ache, clenched.

 

_Good_ , comes the answer.  Then, a few seconds later, _Sammy misses you._

 

_Tell him I’ll be home by 8. Need anything?_

_No I’ll make dinner._

_Looking forward to it._

 

The light changes, Frank follows the group a little longer.  Their footsteps seem louder than the traffic crawling past, light to light.  But he stays with them, cover.  Plain sight.

 

He peels away into a self-storage joint and stows the duffle, exchanges it for a backpack.  He puts the broker’s book of possible thieves into the bottom of the bag, some random clothes on top of it.  He packs light otherwise, just a knife and a handgun in holsters on his waist, another knife, a butterfly, in his pocket.  He leaves the storage unit and heads out, to the subway this time, using a pre-paid Metro card he’d stashed, hadn’t used yet. 

 

The church. Curt spends so much time here Frank knows it means more to him than just a group.  Frank lets himself in, the heat of the building a wall that smacks Frank’s December-cold face.  He rubs his hands together, quick and hard, feeling the tug of the gloves tight against his fingers.  The gloves are not unlike the ones he got for Dean, and it takes picking the fingertips to strip them off as he walks in, listening to the quiet of the building. 

 

Remembers bumping into Lewis Wilson here.  Cheap aftershave smell, nervous look. 

 

Remembers, flat bloody taste, the bomb Wilson strapped to Curt.  Stink of sweat and decay stuck on the air.  Dust that wasn’t really dust, swirling in the light, sneaking around the curtains.

 

Remembers, the bomb Wilson took himself out with, the sprout of wires and—Frank shakes his head, tries to shake the thought.  At least it ended quick for Wilson, when he got to that end.  Maybe too long to find it though.  Maybe the kid wound up . . . where ever. 

 

Frank hopes he’s not haunting.  Weird, how thoughts change.  He had married Maria under the so-called eyes of God, but in his most realistic moments, he just assumed the end was just black.  Stuck to the world sounds worse. 

 

Curt’s sitting in a chair, live-foot propped up in the other, book open in his lap. He looks up when Frank enters the room, smiles.  A real one, goddamn, it’s a little amazing.

 

“You look like shit, man,” Curt says.  “Get some coffee.” 

 

Frank can’t help the rough exhale, bark of a laugh, and thinks the coffee will taste less bitter.  He says, “Thanks,” and feels like a brother and a stranger at the same time. 

 

He drops his backpack near the folding chair next to Curt, who’s making a point of not watching Frank get his cup.  It’s the same damn brand Curt’s always bought.  Stringent, but it’s hot, and Frank sucks it down.  All he can hear for a second is the sound of his own swallow, the rattle of traffic outside.  Quiet. 

 

“How you been?” Frank goes on, asks.  He holds the cup, steady.  Course he is, even now.

 

“Doin’ alright,” Curt tells him, looking at him, studying.  The book on Curt’s lap is Sudoku.  He’s got most of the puzzle filled in, yellow pencil resting in the nest of the spine, yellow pencil like he’s in the 9th grade again.

 

“Good,” Frank hears himself saying.  It’s an echo, like the swallow of coffee had been.  “Good.”

 

“Been . . . longer than I thought it’d be.  A while,” Curt says.  “You’ve been .  . .quiet, I guess.  In your other life.”

 

Frank looks up, feeling the tugs at the corners of his face, warring between guilt and fuckin’ righteousness that don’t quite seem to fit when he’s talking to Curt.  Though Curt _knows,_ dammit. 

 

Curt gets it, somehow reading in all that.  Nods.  Maybe it’s more like diagnosing. 

 

“Quiet, but not nothing,” Curt says, sighs like he’s disappointed, but it’s probably closer to being sad for Frank.  “You said you were scared of not having a war, then you ran right back into it.  The guy I never knew to run from a fight, never ran when he was scared when the bullets were flying.  Running away from peace.”

 

“It ain’t that simple,” Frank says, quiet and caught between wanting to heat up and cool down.  He doesn’t often _want_ to make people understand, doesn’t care, it’s not their _business._ But sometimes—he just wishes they’d know anyway. Wishes someone could hear how his head starts trying to fill in the quiet, how his children laugh and scream and sob all at the same time like a fucked up impossible choir, how Maria strokes his cheek like a phantom.  How he’s got to do _something—_

 

If Dean knew what he’d been up to today, not just the general idea, but really seeing—he’d turn his head.  Maybe.  He might accept it, sad fucking truth, to keep on getting accepted himself.  Sammy’d grab his brother’s hand and take off running. 

 

Both of those ideas scare the shit out of Frank, and that’s a surprise.

 

“You been up to anything besides punishment?”  Curt asks him. 

 

Frank wonders how long he’d just been standing there, and realizes he’s gummed his mouth shut and he’s been staring at his coffee cup, half black. 

 

“Yeah,” he says.  Admits.  Then Frank finds himself opening his mouth up again and explaining about a couple of stray neighbor kids he sort of picked up, who picked up him, and how they’re depending on him but it might not be that simple.  Good kids, damn good ones, whose dad set them up for shitty lives despite trying not to— _maybe—_ but the fucker’s dead, so goddamn.

 

Curt listens in silence, making _huh_ noises at times.  Makes a big one when Frank confesses to reaching out for help with making things legitimate, to help Sammy go to the school he wants to go to.

 

“That why you’ve been quiet?” That’s what Curt says, after Frank’s talked so much his throat’s a little sore from it. 

 

Frank nods.  Cup’s still half black, gone cold.  He swallows it down.  “Couldn’t risk bringing shit down on their heads.”

 

Curt looks like he’s about to step into a minefield with his good leg.  Frank braces. 

 

Curt says, “It’s not disrespecting their memory to get better.  To make new memories.”

 

“I know.  I know that.  But—fucked up, huh?” Frank leans back in the folding chair, against the back of it hard enough that the metal groans.

 

Curt raises both his eyebrows and waves his hand.  _Continue._

 

Frank does.  Digs his hole—”Maria knew my temper, too.  We fought.  We weren’t perfect—” _it made the good times better it_ “She warned me, once, about being more soldier than her man.  If I lost myself, I’d lose her.  That—It was the other way around though, wasn’t it?” 

 

Curt’s lost his therapist look, the friend look.  He’s taken on that old expression, the look he’d get before he cut into wounded flesh, for the shrapnel buried deep.  Curt puts the Sudoku book down and leans forward in his chair, both feet on the ground:

 

“Bullshit, Frank.  Only a man without a sense of direction gets lost.  You know exactly what you’re doing.  Right now, you can’t reconcile your private war with having the chance for something better again.  Because you didn’t think it was possible.  Or are you _not_ coming down from a combat high right now?”

 

Frank finds himself laughing, a harsh little bark that don’t sound right.  “It wasn’t combat, and it wasn’t a high.”

 

“What was it?  Execution?  Like your days in Cerberus?” Curt asks.  Field extraction.

 

“Not far off.  They made me good at it,” Frank finds his chin lifting, sees the morbid humor in it.  He wants to push his head into the dark for a while.  “You going to point out that those days ended up killing my Maria, my kids?”

 

Curt shakes his head, speaking soft and careful again—but with no less deliberate precision, either.  “No, Frank.  Fuck.  No, brother.”  He pauses.  Waits.  Then goes on, “I’m going to point out that you’re coming to me for answers, and you’ve already got them.  You want me to help point them out to you, I can do that.”

 

“I don’t have PTSD, Curt.  I’ve got a fucked up brain.  I’m a menace.  Mad dog,” Frank tells him.

 

“You say you ought to be put down, I’ll shoot you in both feet with your own gun, you asshole,” Curt tells him, standing up and heading to the coffee pot.  “Who are you trying to convince here?  You were quiet, you _could be quiet._ Then something freaked you out, sent you out to your comfort zone.  Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

Frank keeps his mouth shut.

 

“Deal with that.  Run at it, figure it out.  Hell, imagine your kids meeting these kids.  If they lost their dad, if you’d been the one to go at the park—something.”  Curt’s looking at him, paused by the coffee machine.

 

That pisses him off and makes him feel sick at the same time.  But it’s the right thing to point out.  Frank looks at his friend, who should have two legs if Frank didn’t fuck up, if he’d shot a woman he should’ve shot.  His friend who never blamed him.  Who’s listening to him whine and bitch now.  Christ. 

 

Curt deserves an answer, even though it wasn’t a question, so Frank nods.  “A’right.”  Forces a smile.  “You ever get tired of being right?”

 

“Never,” Curt says.  He grins, just a little bit.  “Now come wash the coffee pot for me, I got a flavored kind for the meeting later.  Christmas is coming, right?”

 

“Fancy,” Frank says back, a little dry and grateful for it.  He gets up to do that, his hands feeling creaky, tight. 

 

They keep talking, the quiet ebbing away to street noise and the chores of setup.  Frank ends up telling Curt to call on Christmas.  Maybe he could come by.  If he finishes his rounds, anyway, checking on the group members who live alone.  Bad time for their kind, around now.  Curt says okay, with a “we’ll see” that is, in Curt-speak, “most definitely unless something terrible happens.”  Curt’s maybes have always been yeses.

 

Frank tries not to think too directly at how many people are going to know where he lives in the next few weeks.  Curt’s someone he can trust without question.  It’s just an idea he’s got to adjust to.  Frank realizes he has no idea what Karen’s doing for Christmas.  If she’ll go home to where her family is from.  Stay here.  Seems—he can’t ask that.  Maybe he can.

 

He leaves about a half hour before Curt’s group’s going to show up, probably tight—when Frank was coming, there was always a few who showed up early.  Sure enough, he slips out the back and hears the front open.  He pauses, waits, half in the heat of the building, half blasted by the cold outside.  Makes sure—recognizes the voice calling a tentative hello down the steps.  Warning, announcement, best not surprise anybody—smart.  A regular.  Good.  Frank leaves, feeling his heels itch until he’s a block away, head down, in case.

 

Frank realizes he doesn’t want the vets, the ones he knows, to recognize him, and feels a weird turn in his stomach.  They knew before.  Fuckin’ “Punisher” on TV.  No one ratted, his bill was cleared anyway, but.

 

That ain’t why.

 

Curt was right, Frank knows his answers. ~~~~


End file.
